Josè turned away, sick with the horror of it all. A soldier approached him with a message from Don Mario. The condemned man was asking for the last rites. Faint and trembling, the priest accompanied the messenger to the jail.
“Padre! Dios arriba!” wailed the terrified and bewildered Don Mario. “It was a mistake! Don Wenceslas––”
“Yes, I understand, Don Mario,” interrupted Josè, tenderly taking the man’s hand. “He told you to do it.”
“Yes, Padre,” sobbed the unfortunate victim. “He said that I would be rich––that I would be elected to Congress––ah, the traitor! And, Padre––I burned his letters because it was his wish! Ah, Santa Virgen!” He put his head on the priest’s shoulder and wept violently.
Josè’s heart was wrung; but he was powerless to aid the man. And yet, as he dwelt momentarily on his own sorrows, he almost envied the fate which had overtaken the misguided Don Mario.
The lieutenant entered. “Señor Padre,” he said, “the sun is low. In a quarter of an hour––”
Don Mario sank to the ground and clasped the priest’s knees. Josè held up his hand, and the lieutenant, bowing courteously, withdrew. The priest knelt beside the cowering prisoner.
“Don Mario,” he said gently, holding the man’s hand, “confess all to me. It may be the means of saving other lives––and then you will have expiated your own crimes.”
“Padre,” moaned the stricken man, rocking back and forth, his head buried in his hands and tears streaming through his fingers, “Padre, you will forgive––?”
“Aye, Don Mario, everything. And the Christ forgives. Your sins are remitted. But remove now the last burden from your soul––the guilty knowledge of the part Don Wenceslas has had in the disaster which has come upon Simití. Tell it all, friend, for you may save many precious lives thereby.”